


Bogeymen: Part 1

by tehloserprince



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/F, Memories, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3573128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehloserprince/pseuds/tehloserprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was inevitable that Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) would hit everyone involved with the Reaper war pretty hard. In spite of her perfect genes, Miranda Lawson was no exception.</p>
<p>Or, if you prefer: Miranda suffers PTSD-induced nightmares, ruminates on a few major life decisions at 3:00 a.m., and is comforted by Jack.</p>
<p>I finished this. I'm releasing it into the wild. I still intend to add more to this series, though, from the POV of various characters.</p>
<p>Surprisingly, I changed (and added) much more than I intended. Oh well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bogeymen: Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me i̶n̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶t̶r̶a̶s̶h̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶ on Tumblr: tehloserprince.tumblr.com

It was inevitable that each one of them would face their own personal demons after fighting a years-long war against the Reapers. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder – or PTSD, if you wanted to add yet another acronym to memory – seemed to take on an entirely new meaning after the war. If nothing else, PTSD had become a common bond amongst the various sentient lifeforms that had taken part in the war. Circumstances varied depending on the individual, the position(s) they played during the war, their proximity to the Reapers, and the deaths and general chaos that they had witnessed, but when it came down to it everyone Miranda Lawson could think of had been impacted by the war in some way or another – some more than others. 

As much as she hated to think about it, Miranda knew that the Reaper War had even made an impact on her own sister, Oriana. While it was true that Oriana had been spared the worst of the war – thanks in no small part to her older sister’s near-obsession with keeping her as far out of harm’s way as possible – she had still been exposed to much more of it than Miranda would have preferred, especially when it came to the confrontation with their father, Henry Lawson. Miranda had half-expected Oriana to turn away from her, to call her a monster for killing their father with no sign of remorse. Instead, she had embraced her, seeming nothing but grateful that her older sister was alive and that she had come to rescue her. 

It was a bittersweet, strange feeling; the memory still made Miranda’s eyes water.

Following the end of the Reaper War, the destruction of the Mass Relays, and the temporary loss of the majority of their communications systems, Miranda had wondered how she would ever get ahold of her sister. She needn’t have worried; the communication systems had barely been restored when Miranda started receiving messages from Oriana, the bulk of which seemed to be seeking Miranda’s approval to join her on Earth and get more involved with the plethora of restoration projects currently underway. As far as humanity was concerned, stabilizing Earth was the priority; following that, their attentions could shift to the Citadel, sending their best teams where they would be needed the most. 

Miranda had been reluctant to give her blessing to her sister, to encourage her involvement in the restoration efforts. Although the Reapers had been destroyed, with Commander Jane Shepard barely clinging to life in the most sophisticated medical center that could be requisitioned under the circumstances, there was still an overwhelming amount of doubt and insecurity in the atmosphere. Surprisingly, Jack – _Jack_ , of all people – had been the one to help Miranda make up her mind.

“She’s your sister, dumbass.” Jack was blunt, as usual, the two of them keeping vigil over an unconscious Shepard. “She wants to be with you, so let her. Not saying you should tell her to stand in front of a fucking firing squad or anything, but if she’s half as smart as you are … "

Seemingly embarrassed by the realization that she was complimenting Miranda, Jack had trailed off, focusing her attention on the various monitors attached to Shepard’s battered body. Pursing her lips together in an effort to stifle a smile, Miranda had made up her mind then and there. Later that evening, she sent a message to Oriana, providing credits and an itinerary for her trip to Earth.

Her attachment to Oriana notwithstanding, Miranda hadn’t been known as the “Ice Queen” of Cerberus for nothing. She had refrained from building any particularly strong bonds with other people, focusing strictly on getting the job done while exceeding any and all expectations. For better or for worse, she had almost ruthlessly earned her position as one of the Illusive Man’s most trusted officers, and she had done it on her own – as it should be. 

Being a solitary agent for the most part suited Miranda just fine. She was comfortable with solitude. Solitude was easily defined and didn’t require much thought. There was no danger of attachment or emotional entanglement with solitude.

Of course, it had all gone to bloody hell when she served as Commander Shepard’s second-in-command on the Normandy SR-2. Miranda had been determined to focus on the mission at the hand – a mission that would more likely end with their deaths. In spite of her best efforts, in spite of her assertions that she wasn’t looking for a friend, imploring Shepard to stay focused on their mission, the Commander had ignited something deep within her, a fire that she had never even known existed.

Slowly, that spark turned into flames, melting away at the icy walls Miranda had formed around her own emotions. It wasn’t enough for Miranda to act more like an actual person around the crew, no – Shepard had also encouraged her to speak to her sister, Oriana, back on Illium. It was foolish, really; the less that Oriana knew about her, the better. Still … the look on Oriana’s face as Miranda approached her, the way her eyes lit up as she revealed her identity … maybe, just _maybe_ , that connection was worth the risk.

After all, there was a chance that her younger sister would see her as something more than a meticulous Cerberus officer. An ice queen. There was a light shining in Oriana’s eyes when she looked at the woman who introduced herself as her older sister.

Miranda knew without question that she would do anything to prevent that light from extinguishing – even if that meant taking part in what would more than likely be a suicide mission to destroy the Collectors.

The proverbial floodgates had opened following that encounter, surprising Miranda most of all. She wasn’t surprised by her growing fondness for Oriana, the younger sister that she had previously been forced to watch from afar. She was, however, surprised by her ability to form something more than a simple working relationship with certain members of the Normandy’s crew. Instead of solitary meals in her quarters, of hours spent dividing her attention between several monitors as she filed reports and gathered pertinent information for Commander Shepard and the Illusive Man, she had actually made more of an effort to interact with the crew. She found a particular kinship with Samara, the wise Justicar who seemed to understand Miranda’s desire to operate in solitude and keep her burdens to herself.

Strangely, the Justicar seemed to understand the Normandy’s crew better than anyone could have imagined. Perhaps she picked up on the subtleties of their interactions, their body language, or even the smallest of character traits. Miranda couldn’t help but smile as she recalled a particular conversation with Samara following a very heated conversation with Jack. Samara had smiled serenely as Miranda struggled to maintain her composure while relaying the details of the confrontation; she’d been stunned into silence when Samara had replied, quite calmly, that Jack and Miranda were simply “not so different, deep down.”

Miranda had initially scoffed at the thought of having anything in common with Jack. The woman was a violent, maladjusted, ex-convict! Of course, Samara had been right about everything – damn it all. Taking part in this suicide mission, facing almost certain death, had somehow brought Miranda and Jack together. Granted, it had all begun as a purely physical relationship, the result of sexual tension, frustration, or maybe, just maybe the desire to feel close to other human being.

Of course, it was also a more acceptable alternative than simply killing one another.

Against all odds, the crew of the Normandy had survived the suicide mission and destroyed the Collector Base. In the process, Miranda had tendered her resignation to a less-than-thrilled Illusive Man. The sex with Jack had been bloody fantastic when they returned to the Normandy from the remnants of the Collector Base, and it didn’t end there. In fact, their physical relationship resumed with a newfound sense of passion.

Who knew that resigning from Cerberus would have earned _that_ reaction from Jack?

More surprisingly, perhaps, Miranda found that she looked forward to their encounters, whether or not sex was involved. They still traded insults like schoolgirls, but there was no real venom behind the words. More and more, Jack had become the stray cat prowling around the Normandy, and Miranda found that she was only too happy to take her in. That feeling – was it attachment? Had she somehow managed to grow attached to this woman?

Attachment was something that Miranda had never been particularly good with. She’d hoped the uncomfortable feeling would dissipate over time, but it persisted; even when she was on the run from just about everyone in the galaxy, she managed to keep tabs on Jack. She’d felt a strange sense of pride when she realized that the ex-convict had evolved into a respectable professor of biotics at Grissom Academy.

Over time, and in spite of her best efforts, this … thing with Jack had managed to evolve into something that Miranda couldn’t quite define. That in itself was quite unusual; Miranda had always found a sense of comfort and security in her ability to define things clearly, to know and understand her place in the world. Sex had always been something of a business transaction – a pleasurable one, if the partner was up to par – but something to be completed before permanently parting ways. One night stands were the way to be, particularly when you weren’t good at being attached to another person. One night stands were easily defined; but this – this _relationship_ with Jack, if that’s what it truly was – seemed beyond the scope of definition.

If Miranda was honest with herself, then it was possible that she simply didn’t want to define it. Definitions meant … well, they meant _something_ , didn’t they? To define something was to turn it into something more serious, more terrifying. If Miranda’s life revolved around the concept of control, then Jack was surely chaos. And yet … they just seemed to fit together, perfectly – yin and yang, two sides of the same coin. Hell, even the war against the Reapers hadn’t kept them apart. In a strange twist of fate, they’d fought together as part of Earth’s last defense, exchanging silent looks as they each held their breath and waited for Commander Shepard to decide the fate of the universe. It all seemed like it had occurred in another lifetime.

Miranda glanced at the clock next to the bed: 3:00 a.m. Why the _bloody hell_ was she awake? It had all started with another nightmare, of course, before the floodgates had opened and all of these other thoughts and memories had flooded her brain. Her nightmares always seemed to revolve around Oriana, somehow. Although the specific details of each dream were unique, there was one recurring factor that troubled her: her failure to save her, to protect her from everything dark and evil in the world.

Idealistic? Yes. However, this was Oriana, after all. So much of her life had been devoted to the protection of her younger sister, the assurance that her life would be as normal as possible – even if it meant essentially sacrificing her own life in exchange for that freedom.

… But had it been Oriana that she had failed this time? Or was it … No. That was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

Jack had long since fallen asleep after waking up to soothe Miranda. She was convinced that the younger woman could sleep through another Reaper invasion, honestly. _Or maybe she’s just relieved that she doesn’t need to run anymore_ , Miranda thought.

The stray cat had found a comfortable bed and a warm body; she seemed intent on sticking around, and Miranda found that she was quite happy to oblige.

Still, in spite of her fondness for sleep, Jack never failed to wake up whenever Miranda was in the throes of a nightmare. It had become something of a sad routine after the Reaper War. When Miranda awakened in a cold sweat, body trembling, fearing that every fault in her bloody genes had somehow prevented her from saving a friend or loved one, it was no longer a surprise to find that Jack was holding her tightly, firmly, applying just enough pressure to soothe her and keep her still without harming her.

Sometimes, Miranda was convinced that Jack’s grip was the only thing keeping her anxiety from shaking her right out of her own skin, her only tether to reality in the wake of these vivid and frequently horrific nightmares.

As Miranda’s eyes had fluttered open, her body shaking with the overwhelming fear of failure, she hadn’t been surprised to find a familiar pair of whiskey-colored brown eyes staring seriously, imploringly, into her own blue eyes. Jack only spoke when she was positive that Miranda was conscious enough to hear and understand her words.

“Oriana’s safe, Miri. Everything’s fine. _Fuck_ the Reapers. We won.”

Jack had kissed her forehead, then –she could be so sweet when she wanted to be, as Miranda had discovered in their time together – holding her tightly until Miranda had quit shaking. Once Miranda was fairly certain that she wouldn’t be crawling out of her own skin, they would lie down together, Jack rolling over with her back facing Miranda.

To anyone else, the response may have seemed harsh, perhaps bordering on apathetic; but again, this was another part of their post-war routine. Jack had long since learned that, for whatever reason, Miranda found comfort in tracing Jack’s tattoos in the darkness of their shared bedroom, losing herself in a tapestry of skin, ink, and scars.

Admittedly, the first time that Miranda’s fingers had grazed one of her scars, Jack had flinched; after the initial awkwardness, the surprising feelings of shame and insecurity that came along with that simple touch, Jack had apparently decided that she didn’t mind sharing her scars with Miranda. Unbeknownst to Miranda, Jack had simply determined that there was something strangely reassuring in knowing that someone could truly _see_ her without feeling repulsed or viewing her as little more than a _monster_.

Miranda wasn’t a fool; she knew bloody well that the trust and affection between them had been hard-won and she was loathe to jeopardize that. She was fiercely protective and proud of it, in fact. Miranda treasured every soft gesture that she received from Jack – a softer gaze, a crooked smile, or a gentle touch even in the midst of rough and passionate sex.

_Could it really have been her instead of Oriana in that last dream? Was I … trying to protect her? Was … was I about to lose her?_

The sudden thought of losing Jack caused Miranda to flinch inwardly. She sighed, squeezing her eyes shut as though she could somehow block these unnerving thoughts from her brain. 3:00 a.m. was _not_ the time to be dwelling on such things.

Instead, she traced the constellation of tattoos covering Jack’s body, occasionally pausing to remember a story that Jack had shared with her regarding a specific mark or symbol, quietly nudging the bogeymen back into the darkest recesses of her mind while Jack sleepily murmured her approval, moving just a little closer to Miranda.

Their bodies fit together like two pieces of a strange puzzle, Jack’s patchwork skin contrasting sharply with the milky whiteness of Miranda’s own flesh. Strange, yes, but this – whatever this was – worked.

Miranda could ponder the details of their relationship when it wasn’t 3:00 a.m. Brushing the lingering questions and confusion aside in her mind, Miranda draped one arm over Jack, her fingers coming to rest gently against the younger woman’s hips.

Maybe this didn’t need to be defined.

Or, at the very least, perhaps it could be defined later. Miranda wanted to treasure this moment for all it was worth, committing every last detail to memory before sleep finally overcame her.


End file.
